


yesterday, i saw a lion kiss a deer

by idolrapper (wonwoo)



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Camp Half-Blood, Demigods, Friendship, Humor, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-15 23:59:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8078923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonwoo/pseuds/idolrapper
Summary: You eat the pomegranate seed by choice but you make it look like a trick.(in which the son of Hades, Jeon Wonwoo, comes to Camp Half-Blood.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> for ref: wonwoo, son of hades / hoshi, son of poseidon / dk, son of apollo. most of the other members are mentioned within the fic ♡

The rumour mill goes crazy when Jeon Wonwoo arrives at Camp Half-Blood. Soonyoung hears about how Wonwoo had to eat a raw pig's heart when he came of age and how he spent days on the edge of Tartarus whenever he was grounded and that he was suuuuuper intimidating, according to Chan, before he even has a chance to meet the son of Hades. 

“I've heard a lot about you,” is the first thing Soonyoung says to Wonwoo. It's the second night of summer and they've gathered around a crackling fire to listen to the camp leaders talk about Gods past. Soonyoung likes to call the ritual 'let's bond by talking about how much our parents suck'. 

The log Wonwoo is sitting on is the only one free. There is literally no one sitting on this log other than Wonwoo. He's wearing dark wash denim overalls and white sneakers and glasses made of thin textured gold. He has a laurel wreath around his neck that he's fiddling with, picking apart the leaves with his slender fingers. 

“I'm sure you have,” Wonwoo says. He doesn't look at Soonyoung, but Soonyoung stares at his eyes. His irises are aflame. 

“I can see the Underworld in you,” Soonyoung stage-whispers. 

That makes Wonwoo turn, laughing like it'd been yanked out of him. “People say a lot of weird shit to me but I've never heard that one before.” 

Soonyoung can feel Seokmin watching them from the other side of the campfire. He scoots closer to Wonwoo until their knees knock together. “Did you know that you're like, cute? I think people are wrong.” 

Wonwoo shoves Soonyoung away, shaking his head. The action, the casual touchiness of it, only reels Soonyoung in more. He grins at Wonwoo. “You like me.” 

“I don't even know you,” Wonwoo replies, smiling, “Stop talking to me.”

Soonyoung clicks his tongue, his reply cut off by Nayoung whistling, and the loud chatter around them dying down obediently.

 

 

Seokmin sneaks into Poseidon’s Cabin after lights out, creeping along the decks with about as much grace as a drunken satyr. Soonyoung rolls his eyes and pushes his bedsheets aside for Seokmin to slip in next to him. “Hey,” he says, voice rough with sleep. His hand scrabbles at Seokmin’s shirt, tugging him in closer. “Where’d you go all year? I missed you.”

Seokmin goes to kiss Soonyoung’s cheek. He can’t stop smiling, so it’s more teeth than lips. “Went to a college in Vermont.”

“‘Murica?” Soonyoung slurs, tightening his grip around Seokmin’s neck.

“Yeah. It was tiny and pretentious and cold. I hated it.”

“Good thing you’re back here with me then.”

Seokmin hums. “Not if you start talking to the Hades kid. Or was it flirting? I _know_ I knew that smile. The dopey one you’ve always got on around Jeonghan. You were flirting.”

“Everyone has a Jeonghan smile,” Soonyoung counters. “It’s hard to resist the Aphrodite charm.”

“Whatever,” Seokmin says. He tries to kick Soonyoung in the shin but with how flush their bodies are, he only manages a gentle scrape. “Let’s call it your masochistic smile. Everyone thinks you’re out of your mind talking to him.”

“Do you?” Soonyoung asks, keeping his tone light.

Seokmin hesitates. “No. I just—I think you’re being shallow.”

“Shallow?” Soonyoung repeats. A second later, it clicks. “You think he’s got a nice face too.” Seokmin goes pink. Soonyoung digs his knuckles into Seokmin’s stomach, tickling. “You _do_.”

“Shut up, I don’t,” Seokmin argues. “And even if I did, I can’t ignore the fact that he’s the offspring of the God of the _Underworld_. _I’m_ not shallow.”

“Please, there are oceans shallower than you, Lee Seokmin. I’d know.” Soonyoung’s hand slips under Seokmin’s pyjama shirt, scratching goosebumps along his stomach. “Face it, Wonwoo’s hot. Both figuratively and literally.”

He doesn’t tell Seokmin how he’d always hoped Wonwoo would come here. It’s not like he _knew_ Wonwoo, nor did he know that Wonwoo was handsome before tonight, but he knew _of_ him—he was the only son of Hades. Soonyoung is the only son of Poseidon. Zeus has too many children to count. Of course he’d been curious. 

Seokmin snaps his teeth at Soonyoung, biting into the pudgy flesh of his cheek.

Soonyoung bats him away, laughing. “Stop that. He’s not scary.”

“Promise?” says Seokmin.

 

 

And promise Soonyoung does.

Last night, he was instructed to give Wonwoo a tour of Camp Half-Blood because he’d been one of the only campers to volunteer himself for the task. Seungcheol, one of the other camp counsellors and son of Zeus, had stuck his hand up too, but Nayoung rolled her eyes at him and said, “Alright, that’s sorted then. Thanks, Soonyoung.”

“Some of the kids here could kill men with their bare hands,” Soonyoung says, dodging a spear that swings past him as he and Wonwoo walk across the camp grounds the next morning. 

Wonwoo has his hands shoved deep inside the pockets of a pair of ripped jeans. His broad shoulders curl in on themselves, making his shoulder blades jut out underneath his striped sweater. He seems to be more flight than fight right now, but with the way he sidesteps the weapons and bodies whipping around them with godlike reflexes, Soonyoung knows Wonwoo’s got the latter in him too, even if he doesn’t realise it yet.

Soonyoung slides his arm around Wonwoo’s waist, pointing at a pair—a daughter of Zeus and the son of Heracles—dueling at the edge of the woods. “Like, could you imagine the tinier one knocking that guy down?” He counts to ten in his head and then, bless her, Yoojung gets Jooheon into a chokehold, kicking the back of his knees until he’s flat on the ground. Wonwoo gasps. “Yeah. And they’re scared of _you_?”

“Geez,” Wonwoo mutters, running a hand through his bangs, “That makes me feel better.”

Soonyoung lets go of Wonwoo, grabbing his hand instead. He gives it a squeeze. “They’ll warm up to you soon. Promise.”

They’ve cleared the thicket, reaching the last destination of the day: the lake. Wonwoo doesn’t reply to Soonyoung, his attention taken by the sand pit on the bank. A light wave laps at the stones arranged in a circle around four metres in diameter. In the centre, Seokmin is wrestling with Kim Mingyu. 

Jeonghan is lounging on the grass, sharpening a knife and occasionally pitching in with, “Finish him, Mingyu!” and “That was your chance, you big oaf!” At that, Mingyu pouts in Jeonghan’s direction, and Seokmin slams him into the sand. Jeonghan huffs. 

“Nice one, Seoku!” Soonyoung calls out.

Seokmin rises, wiping his hands on his knees and placing them on his hips. His skin’s gotten back its golden tinge, after a day and a half of being here again. He’s wearing a wifebeater and a thick leather band around his wiry bicep, and his hair is wavy and damp, winding around his ears like ivy. Seokmin is the son of Apollo. He never belonged in Vermont. He belonged here, under the half-blood sun.

“That’s my best friend, Lee Seokmin,” Soonyoung whispers, “Well, kind of.” 

“Best friend,” Wonwoo repeats, with a nod.

“What, don’t have one of those?” Soonyoung teases.

“There aren’t many chances to make friends when you spend half your childhood listening to the screams inside Tartarus,” Wonwoo says dryly. The smile on his face tells Soonyoung he’s joking. “It’s character building.”

Soonyoung swings their joined hands up, until they’re high enough to block the sun. “You’ve got a sense of humour.” 

He looks up, making eye contact with Seokmin, who immediately narrows his eyes at Soonyoung.

“Hi,” he bites out, when Soonyoung and Wonwoo reach the lake. 

Wonwoo lets go of Soonyoung’s hand, bowing his head a fraction. “Hey, I’m Wonwoo,” he says. 

Mingyu bounds over to them, slinging an arm across Wonwoo’s shoulders. “Mingyu, Hestia’s kid. I’ve wanted to meet you aaaaall week.”

Wonwoo nods, face pensive as he processes all the introductions chirped at him by Jeonghan, Seokmin, the several campers who have inched closer, curious. 

“Alright,” Seokmin announces, clapping his hands together. The sound they make is loud and resonant. “Who wants to meet me in the pit?”

Jeonghan pushes Mingyu forward again, the sore loser that he is. Half the time he’s too lazy to fight his own battles and bribes some infatuated kid into taking his place, but he’s actually Camp Half-Blood’s best warrior. The next Achilles, they call him. 

A couple more step into the fray, including Minghao, a nimble-footed Nike scion, and Yuju, the daughter of Hermes who Seokmin used to turn bright red around in his first year at camp. Seokmin is about to choose an opponent when some beefcake from the Ares clan yells out, “Let’s see how good the newbie is!”

“Yeah!”

“I wonder what kinda freaky fighting techniques they use in the Underworld,” someone to Soonyoung’s right pitches in.

To his credit, Wonwoo doesn’t look too uneasy as he leaves Soonyoung and makes his way to Seokmin. Soonyoung shoots him a thumbs up when Wonwoo turns back to look at him, his lips pressed together, and to Seokmin, he mouths _go easy_. Seokmin replies, _me?_

Wonwoo gingerly steps over the border of stones, his boots kicking up sand. His outfit isn't ideal for physical activity, and maybe he’d planned it that way. Standing there, his figure delicate as a dandelion compared to Seokmin’s, Soonyoung expects Wonwoo to throw in the towel. He has a fight in him, sure, but maybe not yet.

Wonwoo doesn't. He quietly asks Seokmin to explain the rules. Mingyu tosses Wonwoo a thin strip of cloth to tie around his upper thigh like a garter. They get into position. Wonwoo’s cheek is pressed against Seokmin’s shoulder, and he glances over at Soonyoung, sitting cross-legged on the grass, with a half smile that makes Soonyoung’s stomach flip.

Soonyoung observes three things as he watches his kind of best friend roughhouse with the boy he’d been waiting half his life to meet:

One, Wonwoo has a stubbornness, a pride in him that reminds Soonyoung of the rumours his mother told him about Persephone—subtle, cunning, idealistic. “You eat the pomegranate seed by choice but you make it look like a trick,” his mother had once said.

Two, Seokmin’s thighs, solid like the pillars holding up Olympus, look really fucking good framing Wonwoo’s thin hips. 

Three, the look on Wonwoo’s face as he stares up at Seokmin, the breath knocked out of his lungs; it’s love at first sight.

 

 

Seokmin invites Wonwoo to sit with them at breakfast before Soonyoung even has a chance to. Wonwoo slides onto the bench in mess next to Soonyoung, and Soonyoung pokes a finger into his cheek, whining, “I can’t believe you like him more than me.”

Wonwoo smiles at Soonyoung, his fringe kicking over his eyes, nose wrinkling. “I like you plenty,” he says.

Soonyoung lifts up a piece of toast and winks at Seokmin across the table. Seokmin pretends to gag.

“Is it true that you’ve been inside Tartarus?” Seungkwan, a son of Dionysus, asks. There’s a dick drawn on his bloated cheek, by Vernon no doubt, and Wonwoo dutifully ignores it.

“Nah,” Wonwoo replies through a mouthful of Fruit Loops, “Spent most of my time in a boarding school.” He grins, lifting his shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “So basically Tartarus.” Mingyu opens his mouth to speak, but Wonwoo cuts him off, “I didn’t eat a pig’s heart either. I had birthday cake.”

“What kind?” Soonyoung asks. He winds his right foot around someone’s ankle, but he can’t be sure if it’s Seokmin’s or Wonwoo’s.

Wonwoo laughs. “Ice-cream.”

“My favourite,” Seokmin pitches in.

 

 

If there’s one thing Soonyoung prides himself on, it’s being in tune with his body. Swimming is like second nature to him. He could spend hours floating on the lake, watching the Heavens above him, his mind quiet, just a body, a piece of driftwood. When the Aphrodite and Apollo cabins bring out their lyres and harps and _aulos_ during bonfire night, Soonyoung always takes centre stage, his body lithe and graceful, leg bent, a bare foot trailing crescents in the sand. 

His body curves, malleable. 

But Wonwoo is sharp.

His elbow stabs Soonyoung in the stomach as Soonyoung stands behind him, guiding his limbs into the correct stance to draw back the bow. A rush of air shoots out of Soonyoung’s lungs.

“Sorry,” Wonwoo says, mouth twisting in a sheepish smile. “Got nervous.”

“Really?” Soonyoung breathes, sounding less playful than he’d intended to. The tips of Wonwoo’s ears are hot, crimson red.

Soonyoung gives Wonwoo’s waist a squeeze, and then lets go, stepping away. He takes the bow out of Wonwoo’s lax grip, plucking an arrow out of the quiver slung across Wonwoo’s back. “Alright, let me demonstrate,” he says, getting into position. He adds a running commentary in a shitty impression of Seungcheol’s voice, which makes Wonwoo giggle, and then cover his mouth with his hand in embarrassment.

Elbows straight, shoulder dropped, three fingers holding the string taut, thumb an anchor. 

Soonyoung turns to grin at Wonwoo as he shoots.

The arrow zaps across the field like a lightning bolt. Bullseye. 

Wonwoo makes a noise that can only described as a grumble. “Why are you so good at this?”

“I’ve had years of practice,” Soonyoung says, lowering the bow. He sinks onto the matted cornflower next to where Wonwoo’s sat, cross-legged. “Plus, Chiron used to be the Activities’ Director here.”

“Chiron,” Wonwoo echoes, his bottom lip jutting out slightly. “What good am I going to be in a war?” He fiddles with the splintered arrow he’d dropped onto the ground earlier.

Soonyoung leans back on his palms, legs spread. The hems of his shorts are frayed white against the pinkened skin of his thighs. There’s a fig-like bruise on his calf, round and purplish-yellow, right next to the scar he’d gotten tripping on a hiking trip when he was thirteen; moonlight slashed across his right shin. He casts his face up towards the warm sunlight, closing his eyes, before replying, “I’m sure you’ll find something you’re good at over the summer.”

Wonwoo’s hands are cool when they reach over to bend Soonyoung’s right leg up, his thumb indenting the flesh above his knee. He hums, his fingertips trailing across Soonyoung’s ankle, his Achilles’ heel, up the back of his calf, the muscle relaxed, jiggling slightly, and then around to glide across Soonyoung’s scar.

Soonyoung gasps, keeps his eyes shut, until Wonwoo quietly asks, “Are you and Seokmin like—” His throat gives out a little. “Are you dating?”

Soonyoung tries to blink away the sunspots that cloud his vision. Wonwoo lets go of Soonyoung’s leg, his palm coming up to cover Soonyoung’s eyes. His fingers slowly fan out.

“Helps you adjust to the light,” Wonwoo explains. He smiles. “You know, whenever I come up from the Underworld, I sneeze.” He takes his hand away and picks up the arrow again. His fingers are quite nimble for someone who has thus far shown zero talent in every activity he’s undertaken this week. 

Apart from wrestling and archery, Wonwoo has tried his hand at javelin (he’d missed Mingyu’s skull by a hair’s breadth. Mingyu had been standing in the window of the _stables_ ); Pegasus riding (getting Wonwoo onto Diesel was a struggle, the both of them terrified, and Diesel had thrown him almost immediately onto the ground); and weapon making (his dagger, though functional, sagged to the left, and Seokmin had naturally named it Limp Dick). 

“Because of the sun, right? That happens to me too.”

Wonwoo grins, holding up his hand. There’s a yellow bandaid stuck on his palm from when he’d cut it during sword practice.

Soonyoung stares blankly at it for a moment, before high-fiving Wonwoo. It’s after a discussion about whether Seokmin’s father would know why sunlight makes them sneeze that Soonyoung remembers he hadn’t answered Wonwoo’s question.

“Me and Seokmin?” he says.

“You and Seokmin,” Wonwoo repeats, nodding.

“It’s—”

“Complicated?”

“We’re in what Jeonghan likes to call flirtation limbo,” Soonyoung explains.

“Is that what you meant by ‘kind of’ the other day?”

“Yeah,” Soonyoung answers. He pushes himself onto his feet, holding his hand out for Wonwoo. _And I think you’ve kind of been caught in the middle of it_ , he doesn’t say.

 

 

Soonyoung hears the soothing lull of the lake outside his cabin before he registers Seokmin slinking into his bed, nudging him awake. 

“Yah,” is all Soonyoung mumbles.

“Soonyounggie,” Seokmin sing-songs. He rolls Soonyoung over. And sits on him.

Soonyoung grunts. “You’re so heavy. Whaddya waaaaaan—”

Seokmin cups Soonyoung’s cheeks with his warm, chapped palms, making the same noises you’d direct at an infant. “Wanna kiss you, Seaweed Brain.”

“Why don’t you kiss me during normal hours of the day,” Soonyoung grumbles, his sentence faltering halfway when it’s interrupted by Seokmin grinning down at him. He can’t help but smile back. “Wonwoo asked me what we were toda— _mmf_.” Again, he’s cut off; this time by Seokmin leaning down to capture Soonyoung’s mouth with his, tilting his chin back.

Seokmin pulls away a minute later, saying, “Sorry, continue,” and it takes Soonyoung another minute to recall what he’d been saying. 

“Wonwoo wanted to know if we’re dating,” Soonyoung finally elaborates.

Seokmin peppers kisses along the soft line of Soonyoung’s jaw, the corner of his mouth, his rosy eyelids. “What’d you say?”

Soonyoung grips Seokmin’s bare arms. He arches his spine slightly so that his throat is exposed for Seokmin to attach his mouth to. “Didn’t tell him about _this_. Said it was complicated.”

“Wanna know what I would’ve told him?” Seokmin shuffles further down the king bed.

“What,” Soonyoung huffs, laughing when Seokmin blows a raspberry right above his belly button. 

Seokmin dips two fingers into the hem of Soonyoung’s sweatpants, just past the elastic, harmless. “We try so hard not to be like our parents,” he says, tugging, “But here we are anyway.” Soonyoung fills in the blanks—screwing around, falling in love with too many people, starting wars.

“You don’t think we can change?” Soonyoung tries for an answer, his head swimming with lust. Most days he thinks of Seokmin as the friend who happened to get hot over the winter—there’s a soft spot in his heart still for the fifteen year old dweeb who would insist on wearing the baggiest, most tattered t-shirts, five days in a row, whose hair almost reached his chin until it was chopped off, who clung onto Soonyoung like a barnacle no tide could unstick—and it was easy to ignore his attraction. But times like these, there’s something about Seokmin that is an ungodly type of alluring, and Soonyoung has no choice but to let himself be washed away by cognitive dissonance.

“I believe in your humanity, Kwon Soonyoung,” Seokmin says, right before he gets a mouth around Soonyoung’s cock.

 

 

A month into summer, Soonyoung and Seokmin succeed in convincing Wonwoo to join in on the camp’s weekly game of Capture the Flag.

Technically speaking, every camper is obliged to play, but Wonwoo managed to get out of it every Friday by feigning some obscure injury or illness. Last week, he became temporarily colour blind (“I won’t be able to tell which team I’m on!” he whines to Seungcheol). The week before that it was seasickness (“Um,” Jihoon, a son of Athena, announces. Soonyoung reaches over to slap a hand over his mouth but Jihoon throws him off with a Herculean strength Soonyoung still doesn’t understand how he possesses. “Guys, I think he means he’s love sick?”). The week before that he fell off Diesel and claimed his tailbone was broken (“It’s not,” the medic whispers to Soonyoung behind the back of her hand).

Wonwoo is staying in the Demeter cabin—the closest to the woods—while they arrange a Hades one for him. The other day, Seokmin had joked about it being painted black from ceiling to floor. 

Wonwoo ducked his head, and said, “Don’t laugh but I’m thinking about doing a mural across the wall? Like, of Olympus or something. I think it’ll look pretty.” He smacked Seokmin’s arm. “Don’t laugh!”

Soonyoung ruffled Wonwoo’s hair, noting how it’d lightened from the pitch black it had been when he first arrived. “Count us in, Michelangelo,” he offered, in a half-assed attempt to diffuse the situation.

At sunrise on Friday, Soonyoung flicks opens the sunroof of the Demeter cabin, his fingers interlocked with Seokmin’s. He blows the whistle between his teeth—the one he’d stolen from Nayoung—to a chorus of half-asleep groans from the campers. 

Joshua, Demeter’s counsellor, tumbles out of his bed, and with his eyes still crusted shut, picks himself up and stalks towards Soonyoung and Seokmin, zombie-like. He places both his palms in the centre of Soonyoung’s chest and attempts to push him past the doorframe.

“We come in peace,” Soonyoung says, holding Joshua’s wrists. Soonyoung doesn’t budge, and Joshua flops weakly against him, yawning.

Joshua groans. “It’s too early to be alive. Please leave.”

Seokmin sidesteps them, stomping across the floorboards to the room Wonwoo shares with Vernon. Soonyoung sets Joshua aside—he crumples onto the ground—and rushes after Seokmin, who’s now sprawled himself across the bed next to the windowsill, squishing Wonwoo’s cheeks with his knuckles.

Wonwoo mumbles something about how much he hates Joshua, his body half-heartedly bucking up in order to throw Seokmin off him. Seokmin leans over to blow in Wonwoo’s ear. Wonwoo flinches awake, his face flushed with sleep and the realisation that it’s Seokmin lying on top of him and not Joshua.

Soonyoung runs his index finger along the pastel pots lined up along the windowsill—Wonwoo’s filled them with succulents, white daisies no bigger than his fingernail, cacti, ferns and trefoil that spill over the edges, among them a tiny four-leafed clover—and watches a routine that happens so often it’s comical:

Seokmin backs away, letting Wonwoo sit up. Wonwoo glances over at Soonyoung, his fingers wriggling in a wave. He turns back to Seokmin. “Morning, Seokmin,” he says, quietly.

Seokmin smiles, hands folded in his lap. It’s ridiculous how quick his sun-kissed cheekbones turn pink, colouring the freckles newly dusted across his face, but Soonyoung’s insides capsize anyway. “Hey,” Seokmin says.

“Gods,” the Vernon-shaped lump laments from the other bed, “There are too many feelings in this room for fuck o’clock in the morning.”

“What are you doing?” Wonwoo asks, ignoring Vernon.

Soonyoung smirks, waiting for it to dawn upon him—ten seconds later, Wonwoo buries himself under his covers again, muttering, “I’ve got lycanthropy, it’s contagious.”

“We’re staging an intervention, Jeon Wonwoo,” Soonyoung says, uncrossing his legs and pushing himself off the wall. The top of Wonwoo’s head pokes out of the quilt, and he rolls his eyes at Soonyoung. “Red or blue? Your pick.”

“Why won’t you two leave me alone like everyone else? Go jump in an ocean or something, Soonyoung,” Wonwoo complains. There’s a smile in his voice even though they can’t see it. Under his breath, he says, “Blue.”

“Get a _room_!” Vernon yells, before smashing his face into his pillow.

 

 

Despite his protests (“I’m only going to be a liability!” he insists as Soonyoung and Seokmin drag him by the elbows out of the Demeter cabin), Wonwoo obligingly spends the day training with them. He lazes around, taking cat naps under the sun for most of it, but works hard when it counts. 

After dinner, the campers gather outside to be split off into teams. Wearing Seungcheol down is a talent of Soonyoung and Seokmin’s, and so Wonwoo and the rest of the Demeter cabin end up with Poseidon and Apollo. 

“This is scary,” Wonwoo says. They’re gathered in the thick of the forest, waiting for the call to start. Wonwoo is clutching onto the flagpole for dear life. Limp Dick is tucked into the leather belt around his hips. His mouth trembles.

“Holding onto this,”—Soonyoung grins, and places a palm over Wonwoo’s clenched hand, slowly loosening his grip on the pole—“makes you live bait, Wonwoo. We’re not mean enough to make you a guard in your first game.”

“Whatever,” Wonwoo mumbles. He grabs Soonyoung’s wrist, then slides his hand down to intertwine their fingers. “Don’t run away, okay?”

“It’ll be fun,” Seokmin says, approaching them from behind. His fingers are drenched in paint and he cups Wonwoo’s face, smearing blue across his cheeks, right under his eyebags. He wipes his palms on his pants, laughing as Wonwoo cuffs his arm. “We’ll be the best bodyguards ever.”

Wonwoo scoffs.

The paint drips down his face, and Soonyoung reaches over to brush a droplet away, cooing, “Don’t cry, Wonwoo.”

“Stop flirting, Fish Boy,” Jeonghan calls out, miming slitting his throat with his thumb.

Soonyoung laughs, the sound rising above the trees like a flock of birds. He steps away and turns to face the direction of the boundary line. Wonwoo clutches his wrist again. He’s so close to Soonyoung that no one would notice the kiss he grazes over the shell of Soonyoung’s ear. Except for Seokmin, who is standing just as close.

Soonyoung holds his breath.

The screech of Nayoung’s whistle reaches them from the boundary line.

They run.

 

 

“Wonwoo, Wonwoo, Wonwoo,” Soonyoung repeats hurriedly, squatting down next to him. “Just let it go.” His eyes dart left and right, grip sweaty on his bow. The rush of the forest around them is white noise. He can barely hear the yells of the other campers anymore.

Wonwoo is kneeling down on a bed of moss. He’s carefully lifting a tiny goldfinch into his palms, the poor thing limp and weary, its wing bent slightly out of shape. When he stands up, his knees are green. He cradles the bird close to his chest, and shakes his head. “I’m taking it back to camp.”

“C’mon, it’s the circle of life. We’re sooooo close, Wonwoo, I know the flag is around here somewhere,” Soonyoung rambles. Seokmin had left them sometime ago to help Joshua fight off a group of Nike kids.

Wonwoo frowns. “I can’t just let it die. Don’t you get that?” He starts to walk away. In the wrong direction.

Soonyoung rushes after him, angling him to the East. Wonwoo mumbles a thanks, and the goldfinch chitters pitifully. “Okay,” Soonyoung says resignedly, falling into step beside Wonwoo. “But we have to be quick. We’re going to get in trouble, you know.”

“You might,” Wonwoo says, grinning, and the only thing stopping Soonyoung from slapping his shoulder is the bird in Wonwoo’s hands. His gentle, healing hands.

“Hey, Wonwoo,” Soonyoung says. He’d stopped for a moment, and he has to jog to catch up with Wonwoo again.

“Yeah?”

“You’d be pretty damn useful in a war.”

 

 

That night, Seokmin doesn’t come alone. Wonwoo tiptoes in after him. His shoulder brushes against a wind-chime hanging from the rafters, and the sound twinkles through the cabin. Where Seokmin belly flops onto Soonyoung’s bed with no qualms, throwing his arm across Soonyoung’s stomach, Wonwoo awkwardly perches himself on the edge. There’s a pomegranate in his hands.

Soonyoung hadn’t been asleep this time; he’d waited, pushing aside the muslin curtains surrounding his bed to face the lake—the water was so still, and if it wasn’t for the moon bleeding across the surface, it would seem as though it weren’t there at all—and let his arm hang over the edge, fingers tapping against the ash bed-frame.

He sits up now, cradling Seokmin’s head in his lap. He digs his toes into Wonwoo’s hip, and says, “Come heeeeeere.”

Wonwoo yawns, crawling onto the bed to sit in front of them. The pomegranate rolls across the sheets, bumping against Seokmin’s shoulder. Wonwoo snatches it back. “Can I?”

“It’s not like, from the Underworld, is it?” Seokmin asks. His eyebrows curve upwards, apprehensive.

Wonwoo laughs, a soft exhale. “Nope.” He cracks open the pomegranate, absentmindedly, like he doesn’t know his own strength, and the jewelled core splits cleanly into three.

“What’s it like down there, anyway?” Soonyoung asks. 

“There isn’t much to tell,” Wonwoo says, popping a seed onto his tongue like it's a pill. “It's not a place to raise a kid but I had a lot of time to explore. I went through a,” he leans in close and whispers conspiratorially, “ _phase_ when I was fifteen and spent a lot of time sitting on the banks of the River Lethe. Introspection, you know.”

“That’s the—” _The river of forgetfulness_.

“Yeah,” Wonwoo says, shrugging. “Sometimes you want to forget your dad’s the harbinger of death and all that, but I never drank from it, obviously.” He pauses, wipes the juice at the corner of Seokmin’s mouth with his thumb. “The Elysian fields were our closest thing to a Heaven. Still, it’s not—the longer you’re there, the more you start to feel like you’re dead too. It felt like the end. It was worse than Lethe, or anywhere else, because you didn’t _want_ to leave.”

“How’d you get yourself out?” Seokmin asks, eyes wide. 

Wonwoo smiles at him, and the fondness in it makes _Soonyoung_ want to melt into the floor. He shoves a handful of pomegranate seeds into his mouth instead, his cheeks puffing up.

“Humanity,” Wonwoo says.

 

 

The longest Soonyoung has ever held his breath underwater is ten and a half minutes.

It felt like a lifetime, and then an afterlife spent swimming through the River Styx.

Soonyoung kicks his feet through the water, tilting himself downwards. His hair haloes his head like seaweed. He plucks a stone from the sand; it’s a degree cooler than the lakewater, smooth to touch, and streaked in milky white. He turns his hand over, letting it rest in the centre of his palm. His veins run ultramarine blue down the underside of his forearm, his skin pallid. He looks like a corpse. 

He lets the stone slip through his fingers and watches it float to the bottom of the lake.

Then, Soonyoung’s being pulled to the surface by his collar. A pair of arms wrap around his waist, tight as reeds, and a voice is shouting, “What are you _doing_.”

Soonyoung pats Wonwoo’s damp head, and with a flick of his hand, the lake carries them back to shore.

“You don’t have to worry,” Soonyoung slurs, his eyes bloodshot from being open underwater so long, and welling up with tears before he can stop them, “I’m the son of Poseidon.”

Wonwoo doesn’t let go of him, and they lay there on the sand, their bodies tangled and soaking wet. “The _drunk_ son of Poseidon,” he points out. His mouth is pressed up against Soonyoung’s throat. Soonyoung feels the soundwaves all the way down to his cramped toes.

Twenty minutes ago, that mouth had been on Seokmin’s. The camp counsellors had organised a midsummer bonfire, and someone—Seungkwan, probably—snuck in alcohol. 

Soonyoung doesn’t drink usually, but tonight, it was a treat—he has a few too many cans of beer and stands on one of the logs, swaying as he recounts the events of the Trojan War to anyone who wants to listen. That is, until he realises he hasn’t seen Seokmin or Wonwoo in around half an hour. He hops off the log and wanders along the lake in search of them.

They’re behind a large boulder, Seokmin pinned against the sand, his hand gripping the back of Wonwoo’s neck as they make out.

“Oh my Gods,” Soonyoung mutters, loudly enough that they hear him, sitting up so fast that Wonwoo hits his elbow against the rock. He yelps.

Soonyoung laughs, waving the bottle in his hand. He doesn’t move any closer. “Hahaha, Seokmin and Wonwoo sitting in a tree. K-i-s-s-i-n-g.”

“Soonyoung,” Seokmin says. He grins, albeit warily. “Soonyoung, come he—”

“I don’t wanna,” Soonyoung cuts him off. “Have fuuuun. Seoku sucks mad dick, Wonwoo.”

Seokmin winces. Wonwoo goes pale.

Soonyoung needs water.

“Hey,” Wonwoo says, running his fingers through Soonyoung’s knotted fringe. “We were going to come get you. We just got carried away.”

Soonyoung sniffles. 

“You found us,” Wonwoo murmurs.

“Sorry,” comes Seokmin’s voice. He slides down the bank, curling his body around Soonyoung’s. The apology isn’t directed at him: “I should’ve told you he was an emotional drunk.”

“Am not,” Soonyoung protests. He’s overcome with a fresh wave of tears.

“Love you, Soonyounggie,” Seokmin whispers. 

Soonyoung blubbers, his _I love you too_ a series of unintelligible noises. It’s then that Wonwoo leans forward to kiss him. The blood in Soonyoung’s veins rises, crashes, peters out into seafoam. Seokmin nuzzles the back of Soonyoung’s head, massaging his hipbone.

When Wonwoo pulls away, his cheeks are covered in snot. He smiles.

“You’re a third of my soul,” Soonyoung wails, dragging Wonwoo closer. 

“I know,” Wonwoo says. His voice is quiet, reverent. His and Seokmin’s joined hands rest on Soonyoung’s waist.

“I know,” Seokmin echoes.

 _I know_.

So, Soonyoung had eaten the pomegranate seed by choice. 

But everyone knows it wasn’t a trick.

**Author's Note:**

> writing an ending is hard when you've barely got a plot u__u _you're a third of my soul_ is a reference to the line _he is half of my soul, as the poets say_ in madeline miller's _the song of achilles_.


End file.
